Chapter 3: Perfect Level Acting
I remained seated for a moment longer, still processing everything that had happened. The transition into this world, the unexpected presence of a guiding system, and the acquisition of skills I hadn't earned through practice or time—it was all unsettling. The knowledge felt real, but it hadn't yet transformed into confidence.
Despite the system's claims, I didn't feel particularly skilled. It was like knowing how to swim without ever having stepped into a pool.
Before I could consider what to do next, the front door to the waiting area opened with a quiet creak. A man stepped inside, dressed in a fitted t-shirt and well-worn jeans, a clipboard resting casually in his left hand. His eyes scanned the room before landing on me. Without hesitation, he called out, "Jace Harper!"
I stood, slightly stiff from the long wait, and offered a small nod. The man looked directly at me and asked, "That's you, right?"
"Yes, I'm here," I replied with a calm tone, trying to sound sure of myself.
He returned the nod with a neutral expression. "Did you go over your lines?"
I glanced down at the script that had been resting in my lap. I recognized the scene almost immediately when
I first saw it—it was one I had watched many times back when the show aired. It wasn't unfamiliar at all; in fact, I had probably memorized the rhythm of the dialogue years ago, and it was all slowly coming back to me.
"Yes," I said. "I know the scene, I've read through it and I feel comfortable with the lines."
"Good," he responded plainly. "The casting director is ready for you now. Come with me."
He turned without further comment, and I followed him through a side hallway that led away from the waiting area. The corridor was narrow and quiet, lined with closed doors and softly glowing ceiling lights.
We walked in silence, and I kept my thoughts to myself. There wasn't anything I needed to ask; the situation was already strange enough, and I didn't want to overthink it any more than I already had.
Eventually, we reached a wide double door. The man pushed it open, and a set revealed itself beyond.
I paused briefly as I stepped forward. There, ahead of me, was a familiar structure—a house I had only ever seen on a screen. It was the house used in Teen Wolf, the one Scott McCall had lived in. I recognized the front porch, the angled roof, and even the small cracks in the wooden steps.
I continued forward, walking across the artificial lawn that had been laid out to simulate a yard. It was surprisingly convincing. The boards on the porch creaked slightly under my shoes, adding to the realism of the set. I stood before the door, waiting.
The man I had followed stepped ahead of me and opened the door. We entered a cozy living room setup, complete with a well-worn sofa, a low wooden coffee table, and soft overhead lights. A professional camera was positioned at the far end of the room, angled to capture everything.
Two individuals were already inside. One of them adjusted the equipment, checking the angles and focus. The other, a woman with rectangular glasses and a calm demeanor, stood to the side with a tablet in hand. She looked up at me when I entered.
"Are you ready to begin?" she asked, her tone efficient but not unfriendly.
"Yes," I replied, walking calmly to the taped mark on the floor that indicated my position.
She returned her attention to the tablet. "We'll go ahead and see the scene now."
I stood still for a moment, centered myself, and prepared to begin.
It was time to see what I could actually do.
The woman with the tablet cast a quick glance at the camera operator before turning her focus back to me. Her tone remained steady and measured. "You can begin when ready," she said.
As I prepared to begin the scene, the system interface reappeared.
[Initializing Perfect-Level Acting Skill...]
Shortly after, another message followed:
[Audition Scene 1: Scene Between Scott and Stiles]
I immediately recognized the scene. It was one of the most familiar from the early episodes of Teen Wolf, setting the atmosphere of the story from the start. But as soon as I had that thought, everything around me shifted.
The audition room gradually faded, not with fanfare or noise, but in a calm and complete way. The studio lights, camera, and casting crew were replaced by a fully furnished bedroom. The changes were subtle but total.
Posters lined the walls. A lacrosse stick rested beside a desk. The window was open, letting in a quiet breeze.
It became clear I was no longer in a simulation or a stage setup. I was inside Scott McCall's room.
The meaning of the system's "perfect acting" became clearer. This level wasn't just about remembering lines or delivering emotions accurately.
It placed me into the role so fully that it blurred the line between performance and presence.
My thoughts shifted. I still knew I was supposed to be someone else, but that identity moved to the background.
My habits, focus, and behavior aligned with the character. I understood what to do and how to respond, not because I was recalling a script, but because I felt like I belonged there.
This didn't erase who I was entirely, but in the moment, it sidelined those thoughts. I didn't dwell on memories or doubts. I simply moved forward with the actions expected of Scott McCall.
It was weird...I was still me. But I was more....more 'Scott.' I 'knew' the future, but I couldn't access any of that knowledge. For now, I was simply a teen boy inside of my room.
I checked the netting on my lacrosse stick, making sure the tension was right. Music played in the background.
Once I was satisfied, I set the stick on the bed. Then I gripped the pull-up bar mounted in the doorway and began doing chin-ups. It felt routine.
After a few sets, I returned to the floor, walked to the sink, and brushed my teeth while glancing at the mirror.
It was the first time I had really looked at myself since everything had changed. Standing in front of the bathroom mirror, I paused—not because I was unsure what I'd see, but because what I did see genuinely caught me off guard. My reflection looked polished in a way I never quite remembered being.
The face staring back was clear-cut and well-proportioned, with strong, symmetrical features and a jawline that would probably photograph well under almost any lighting. My skin was even-toned, smooth, and free of the small imperfections I had grown used to over the years.
My hair was darker than I remembered, sitting closer to a straight texture but with just enough natural wave to give it shape and motion without any styling effort.
It fell into place on its own, the kind of hair that suggested time spent under good lighting or soft wind. My eyebrows were full but neat, and my eyes—slightly sharper in color than they used to be—held a steady gaze that didn't quite feel unfamiliar, but definitely didn't belong to the life I had left behind.
Physically, I looked lean but solid, like someone who spent their time being active without necessarily thinking about it. The kind of build you notice without it trying to draw attention.
There was a strange clarity in seeing all of this at once. I wasn't unrecognizable, but I was clearly different. Better-looking, objectively speaking. And now, for the first time, I had to consider what it meant to walk through the world with a face that looked this effortless.
A sound came from outside the room.
I stopped, toothbrush still in hand, and listened. It wasn't loud, but it was enough to shift my focus.
I rinsed quickly, picked up the nearby baseball bat, and put on my hoodie. Holding the bat firmly, I stepped into the hallway.
The house was dark. I moved carefully, watching the space ahead. I didn't feel panic, just caution.
Then someone dropped down from above, hanging upside down in front of me. Instinctively, I stepped back and lifted the bat.
We both then screamed at each other in panic like little girls.
"Stiles!" I said, startled. "What the hell are you doing?"
He answered quickly, almost as if he expected the reaction. "You weren't answering your phone! Why are you holding a bat?"
Still catching my breath, I replied, "I thought you were a predator."
"Predator? I know it's late, but you have to hear this," he said as he dropped off of my roof. "My dad just left for a call about twenty minutes ago. Every officer in Beacon is being pulled in, even some from state police."
"For what?" I asked in slight curiosity. Body in some woods?
"Two joggers found a body in the woods," he said as he landed on the ground.
"A dead body?"
"No, a body of water. Yes, a dead body," he said with a flat tone.
Then I realised how stupid my question was but Stiles' sarcasm broke my feeling about that a little.
"You mean, like, murder?"
"No one knows yet. Just that it was a girl, probably in her twenties."
I paused. "If they found a body, what are they still looking for?"
"That's the best part," he said with a bit of energy. "They only found a half."
Then he turned and began walking off. "We're going."
…
(Casting Director Pov)
As I sat in the dimly lit casting room, the screen in front of me quietly humming with soft playback, I found my fingers loosening their grip around the tablet I had brought along to make notes and track performance cues. Initially, I had come in ready to dissect this young man's delivery—to break it down beat by beat, as I usually did.
I had expected to find either stiff nerves or the exaggerated movements of someone trying too hard to impress. But the moment Jace Harper began to embody the role of Scott McCall, something shifted—not just in the room, but in me.
He seemed to be completely into his role.
There was something disarmingly authentic about the way he moved across the space. The small gestures—the hesitation before picking up the bat, the subtle tightening of his shoulders, the near-invisible shift in posture when reacting to a sound—these weren't choices made to impress a panel.
They were instinctive, unconscious even. The way his eyes flickered with suspicion, quickly shadowed by a flicker of youthful fear, followed by the resolve to act despite it, spoke volumes.
In those few seconds, he portrayed the essential quality that defined Scott McCall—not the supernatural strength he would eventually gain, but the inner courage already present long before the transformation.
It was rare to see that kind of nuance, especially in someone with no formal training. Most young actors approached these scenes with a kind of eager stiffness, as though afraid of doing too little.
Jace, on the other hand, seemed unaware that anyone was watching at all. He wasn't acting as though he were in a teenager's bedroom. He simply was there. The illusion held, and it held tightly.
Even more remarkable was how he responded to the lines of "Stiles," which were being read flatly from behind the camera by one of our assistants. Where others might falter in rhythm or show cracks in their immersion, Jace didn't waver.
He reacted to that disembodied voice with the timing and ease of someone who believed there was an actual person in front of him—someone he knew, someone he had grown up with. He wasn't waiting for cues; he was having a conversation.
When he startled and yelled back during the comedic exchange, it wasn't over-the-top or performative. It was genuinely funny because it felt like something a teenager would actually do in that moment. There was nothing forced about it.
His pacing, his tone, even the quick recovery into sarcasm—it all read as lived-in. It was the sort of honest portrayal that audiences connect with, even if they don't quite know why.
When the scene came to a close, I watched him remain still for a few moments, his breath only slightly heavier than before.
His eyes darted to the floor, then to the camera, as if trying to gauge where exactly he was. There was a certain delay in the way he returned to himself, like someone waking up from a vivid dream.
"That was a good run, Jace," I told him, my voice more certain than I'd anticipated. I rarely gave direct praise this early. But in this case, I meant every word.
He blinked once, steadying himself, and nodded. "Thank you," he said simply, with a calm professionalism that belied his lack of credits.
I didn't want to lose the momentum. "Do you think you could try another scene? I want to see how you work with someone else. Someone who's also under consideration for a lead role."
"Sure, I don't mind," he replied, almost casually, as if this was routine for him.
I handed him the next script—a short but emotionally layered exchange between Scott and Allison in the veterinary clinic. It had a different rhythm, one that required gentleness and restraint.
"How long do you think you'll need to prepare?" I asked.
He glanced down at the pages, scanned them briefly, then looked up. "Five, maybe ten minutes."
His ease with the material, paired with his quiet confidence, unsettled me in the best way. This wasn't someone who needed months of rehearsal or layers of coaching.
He was already doing what trained professionals took years to master.
And I knew his background. I had read his file earlier. He didn't have formal acting roles or experience. This kind of instinct didn't come from nowhere, but it was nearly impossible to teach.
As I stepped out of the room, preparing to fetch the actress slated to read as Allison, I felt something tighten and settle in my chest. I had been casting for a long time, and it was rare to sense that you were watching the beginning of something important. But with Jace, that's exactly what it felt like.
This wasn't just about whether he could act. It was about whether he could carry a story, lead a cast, and eventually become the face audiences connected with over seasons. I wanted to see how he shared space with someone else, how he adjusted, how he listened and gave back.
Because if that part of him was as natural as everything else I'd just seen, then we might have found something even more valuable than a good Scott McCall.
We might have found a future star.
I reached the waiting area, gave a small nod to the assistant, and gestured to the actress to follow. Time to find out if the spark we'd just seen could ignite into something even greater.
…
(Jace Pov)
As soon as the casting director stepped out of the room, I turned my attention back to the new script in my hands. Reading through the lines, it didn't take long to recognize the scene.
This was a scene with Allison and Scott...
This wasn't Allison Argent's first meeting with Scott McCall, but rather one of the more memorable early moments between them—the scene where she unexpectedly runs into him at the veterinary clinic where he worked part-time.
The script described a rainy evening. Allison had struck a dog with her car and, visibly shaken, rushed into the clinic looking for help. She was drenched from the storm and holding the injured animal in her arms. Scott, surprised to see her, stepped in to assist.
The moment was quiet, grounded in concern and uncertainty. There was no dramatic build up, just an honest interaction between two teenagers caught in a small crisis. It helped reinforce the early dynamic between them—awkward, sincere, and layered with unspoken interest.
I read through the lines with focus, already familiar with the flow of the conversation. The pace of the exchange was gentle, and although I had watched the scene several times before, I took care to study the words as if I were seeing them for the first time. It was important to approach this from a place of focus rather than recall.
After approximately ten minutes, the door opened once again. The casting director returned, and this time, she wasn't alone. Another actress stepped into the room with her, and I recognized her immediately.
Crystal Reed.
She entered with a sense of quiet ease. Her posture was relaxed but deliberate, and she carried herself with a confidence that wasn't exaggerated. Her dark brown hair, naturally curled and falling neatly to her shoulders, had a soft, almost effortless appearance. Her skin was smooth, and her features composed, giving her a poised and grounded presence that suited the tone of the character.
She wore a fitted top paired with jeans—simple, clean, and entirely appropriate for the role she was about to step into. She held her script lightly in one hand and offered a brief, polite smile to the room, one that suggested she had done this many times before.
The casting director looked over at me and gestured lightly toward our marks on the floor.
"Are you ready to begin the scene?" she asked.
I nodded. "Yes. I'm ready."
Crystal reviewed her script one last time and moved to her position. I did the same, standing in the space designated for Scott's role. The room itself remained unchanged, still a simple audition setting. There were no physical props or simulated rain, no counter or animal cage. The lights overhead remained steady, casting no particular mood.
Still, I remained aware of the system and how it might engage. If the acting ability triggered again, the environment could shift. I might find myself behind the counter of the Beacon Hills clinic, watching Allison enter, soaked from the rain, clutching the dog, uncertain but determined.
For now, I stayed where I was, holding the script lightly in hand, waiting for the moment to begin.
...
Authors note:
You can read some chapters ahead if you want to on my p#treon.com/Fat_Cultivator